


Wet

by Gorgeous_Girl_Genius



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 09:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17558162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeous_Girl_Genius/pseuds/Gorgeous_Girl_Genius
Summary: I wrote a poem about and addressed to Miu Iruma. It's introspective and personal and it's largely about the fact that I had way more work to do than I thought I did on sexual self-acceptance.





	Wet

I love you.  
I don’t know why or how, but you are my favorite character in this game.  
My favorites vary, I know that.  
But there are patterns and trends.  
And I know what I’m about.  
Let me tell you,  
I love  
A cinnamon roll, unfailingly kind and meek, quiet and frightened and too good for this world,  
The happy one who loves everybody, so full of love and sunshine they fill others up with it,  
Someone shy, terrified of their own inadequacies, barely able to speak to others,  
The kuudere type, always calm, but with a heart of gold hidden to one degree or another,  
Or maybe somebody crazy, who can’t take care of themselves, a baby who needs me.  
And that’s that. End list.  
Every favorite character I’ve ever had is there.  
Sure, I’ve loved other characters, enjoyed their presence,  
Wanted to take them in and love them.  
I’ve loved their place in the story, especially.  
Stories would get boring if it was just my favorites being kind to each other,  
but nonetheless,  
Those on that list were my exclusive favorites.  
But then...  
you.  
Who are you?  
You’re loud and brash and self assured, even to the point of meanness.  
You won’t shut up about how good you are, making bold declarations of your own perfection.  
You speak in casual words that are hard for me to even say,  
In speech patterns hard to call anything like considered or refined.  
You insult me, and everyone around you,  
And you won’t let anyone waste your time,  
You’re not shy, you’re not kind, you’re not the sort of crazy that makes you my baby.  
You’re just  
you.  
Who are you?  
You’re loud and brash and self assured, even to the point of meanness.  
You won’t shut up about how good you are, making bold declarations of your own perfection.  
You speak in casual words that are hard for me to even say,  
In speech patterns hard to call anything like considered or refined.  
You insult me, and everyone around you,  
And you won’t let anyone waste your time,  
You’re not shy, you’re not kind, you’re not the sort of crazy that makes you my baby.  
You’re just  
you.  
And let’s just go ahead and talk about it, alright?  
The sex.  
Why won’t you shut your fucking mouth about sex?  
The sex you like, the sex you’ve had, the masturbation, your fucking kinks,  
Suggesting others are having it and how, that I’m having sex with my trusted friend,  
Just absolutely on and on and on about sex.  
You love it and you want everyone to know that.  
And not in pretty, refined, intellectual words either.  
Is that why I like you?  
Should I be ashamed?  
Sure, knowing who you are, I could say,  
“My goodness, what a joy. She sure does keep the story interesting.”  
But not  
“Best girl.”  
Not  
“I love her.”  
Not  
“Favorite Character.”  
What kind of person am I if I love you?  
What kind of person am I if you’re the one I’m obsessed with?  
What kind of person am I if I can’t get you out of my mind?  
Am I disgusting?  
Am I crass?  
Am I just horny as fuck and so fucking gay for you?  
God, I just embarrassed myself.  
Because I don’t use those kinds of words.  
Sure, I’m positive about my sexuality, but I say things like  
“Do I like you because I experience sexual attraction to you?” or maybe  
“Do I like you because we have sexual chemistry and I appreciate how beautiful you are?”  
Because that’s how I talk.  
I’m not fucking horny.  
I don’t want to put my fingers or a giant sex toy inside your pussy and watch you cum around it,  
Oh god no.  
I maybe want to “manually stimulate you or do so with mechanical assistance until you orgasm”  
Because that’s who I am.  
But you  
Fucking you,  
You make me want you even though you’d say things like that.  
No.  
That’s wrong.  
You make me want you because you say things like that.  
And you make me want to say things like that  
Myself.  
Out of my own mouth  
But I think I should hate myself for it.  
I can  
NOT  
Say things like that.  
I’m too… refined, perhaps?  
No, that’s not it.  
I’m too… shy?  
That’s getting colder  
I’m too… proper?  
Warmer, maybe  
I’m far too… Intellectual  
That’s it, I think.  
I have to take an intellectual tone.  
The attraction, it’s all in my brain, and it’s phrased neutrally.  
The best I can say is that it’s like  
The language you would find on a sex education website,  
The language those intellectual kuudere types would use if they were attempting to explain it.  
So why?  
Why do I like you when you make me want to embarrass myself?  
Why do I like you because you make me want to embarrass myself?  
Shouldn’t I be ashamed?  
Shouldn’t I?  
Should I?  
Can this poem go on forever?  
How will it end?  
Will I convince myself out of liking you?  
I don’t think that will work.  
And besides,  
I don’t want to.  
Because god dammit,  
In spite of it all,  
You excite me.  
You make me all hot and wet and desperate for you.  
And, in my fantasy,  
I’m desperate for you to invent something and fuck me with it.  
(Do you need to invent something anyway?)  
(I’m pretty sure it’s just that I’m self indulgent)  
(about my attraction to your talent.)  
We’ll take turns with it,  
And you can bless me by allowing me to bear witness to the gorgeous phenomenon,  
That is you cumming, absolutely positively out of your mind,  
With multiple holes that are hot and dripping wet and clenching tight around an insertion,  
Eyes rolled back in your head, drool sliding down your face and into your hair,  
Unable to perform anything for me in the simple, unrestrained ecstacy  
That you’ve bestowed upon me the opportunity to view.  
And then I’ll treat the bliss that is seeing this,  
with all the respect that you use to speak of yourself.  
Would you let me?  
Would you want me?  
Why do I want you to?  
Why do I want you to in those disgusting words?  
Why do I want you?  
Why do I love you?  
But let’s think about this from another angle.  
What would you say if you knew I was ashamed?  
Ashamed of wanting you,  
Ashamed of the words I love to hear you say,  
And of the ones that I am willing to say  
(or at least type)  
When I’m thinking of you?  
You’d probably be downright pissed.  
How dare I?  
And indeed, how dare I?  
So I can’t be ashamed.  
It wouldn’t do you justice, my love.  
And let’s not forget, you do seem to have a shy side,  
One that I haven’t yet figured out,  
But you’re able to be frightened and speak with that uncertain and wavering tone,  
And if any of that would be reinforced by any of my feelings,  
Well, that’s much, much worse than  
“How dare I?”  
Is this who I am now?  
Have I changed?  
Was I always secretly like this beneath the mask?  
Of shyness, intellectual understanding, refined phrasing, whatever it was?  
Who knows?  
But I know this  
I love you, my darling.  
You’re loud and brash and self assured, even to the point of meanness.  
You absolutely will not shut your mouth about how horny you are.  
So I will let you change me,  
Or perhaps I will let you show me who I always was,  
Because god dammit, your fucking face, your clothes, your hair, your attitude,  
Everything about you  
Makes me so  
Goddamn  
Wet


End file.
